SPIRIT FLIGHT
By P.R. Fittante
SALVO PRESS
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SPIRIT FLIGHT
By P.R. Fittante
ISBN: 1-930486-43-X
This is a work of fiction. All characters and events portrayed in this novel are fictitious and not intended to represent real people or places. All Rights Reserved. No part of this ebook may be reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission of the publisher.
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Chapter 1
O’Dark-thirty. Frank Farago awoke one minute before his alarm was set to go off. He quickly rolled over and flicked a switch on the clock radio, averting the impending blare of rock music. He checked the time—ungodly hour. He wished he could simply roll back over and catch a couple more hours of sleep. For precisely that reason, he turned on the lamp and abruptly sat up on the side of the bed. He paused for one more glance at the clock and some quick arithmetic. His hatred of early morning shows had compelled him to set his clock thirty minutes fast. Somehow this helped ease the pain, though others would swear it was just typical Frank, finding another way to get ahead.
As his feet hit the cold hardwood floor, Frank began the process of mental preparation. The day would be a good one, though fourteen hours of government service lay ahead. He’d need a quick shave and shower.
Ten minutes later he stepped out of the shower and ran a towel over his compact frame. Wiping the towel over the fogged mirror, Frank tried to pinch his skin at his waist, but couldn’t get anything between his thumb and forefinger. At five-ten and 170 pounds, his sculpted physique still resembled that of a wrestler or football player, two of the sports at which he had once excelled. He knew that his running and weight lifting had kept him in that shape—a requirement of all Air Force pilots.
He wiped the steam from the mirror again, glancing closely at his handsome Sicilian features. His lightly tanned face was framed by close-cropped black hair with just the first hint of gray at the temples. His square jaw and full lips were like those of his father. The straight nose, high cheek bones and piercing green eyes came from his mother. Or so he was told. His only memories of her came mostly from faded photographs and old eight-millimeter home movies.
Frank finished up in the bathroom and stepped out into the living area of his single-wide trailer. He picked up the flight suit he had set out the night before and checked the shoulder patches to make sure he had them centered on their Velcro squares. On the right shoulder was his squadron patch, featuring a desert scorpion and the motto “Silent Sting.” On the left shoulder was the patch he was most proud of—the one that said “Graduate USAF Test Pilot School.” Frank slipped on the flight suit and headed for the tiny kitchen. Not a coffee drinker, he sprinkled some cocoa on top of a bowl of cheerios as his one concession to artificial stimulation. He settled down on his couch, cradled the bowl between his legs, and flicked on CNN. He wasn’t surprised to see the latest North Korean crisis leading the news. With half interest, he watched a young correspondent appear, presumably reporting from some remote air base in South Korea.
“ . . . North Korean officials continue to deny that they are preparing for an underground nuclear test. Their refusal to allow UN inspectors into the country has brought mounting pressure from the world community. Yesterday, the President indicated the United States was prepared to use ‘extreme measures’ to keep North Korea from developing a nuclear weapons capability. Potential U.S. responses include the use of F-16 fighters like those deployed here at Osan Air Base, or long range strikes by the B-2 Spirit stealth bomber . . .”
This caught Frank’s attention. The reporter’s handsome face was immediately replaced by a video clip of a low flying F-117. Frank shook his head. The media’s uncanny ability to misinform the public through subtle ignorance amazed him. After all, surely one stealth airplane is the same as any other.
The scene switched to Washington D.C. and the face of Senator William Tolnert. The Chairman of the Senate Armed Services Committee from California was exhorting his colleagues to fund the acquisition of more B-2s for circumstances such as these. Frank cut off the TV. Well, the average Joe may think stealth is stealth, but when it came to cost, Frank knew that all stealth was not created equal. At two billion a copy, the B-2 was worth more than twice its weight in gold.
Frank grabbed his leather flight jacket and stepped outside. He was greeted with the faint perfume of the desert creosote riding on a cool April breeze. An overnight shower had stimulated the plants’ waxy leaves, filling the Mojave with its distinctive aroma. Frank’s attention, however, was on the sky. The first hint of light to the east revealed a thick deck of clouds, obscuring his view of the snow capped San Gabriels to the south. This didn’t bode well for the day’s activities.
He stepped into his truck and began the twenty-minute drive to work. The prehistoric landscape was just beginning to take form in the pre-dawn light. Frank scanned the austere surroundings of sand, sage and waterless lakes. Magnificent desolation. The term used by Buzz Aldrin to characterize the surface of the moon was easily applied to the desert surrounding Edwards Air Force Base. Magnificent desolation—the paradox of the desert. For some, the contradiction was never apparent. Edwards was just part of that God-forsaken country between L.A. and Vegas. Others saw the contrast in the beauty of a sunset over the distant mountains or the ephemeral blossoms of yellow, orange and blue after a spring shower. To Frank, the magnificence of the high desert was epitomized by the forty-four square miles of baked mud known as Rogers Dry Lake. This Pleistocene lakebed had drawn aviators of all types for over fifty years. From the earliest jets to rocket planes that pilots maneuvered to the edge of space, all had existed in the barren beauty that surrounded Rogers. And when one of these exotic beasts suddenly refused to sustain its airman in controlled flight, no sight was more glorious than the infinite expanse of lakebed that offered salvation.
Edwards was the shrine on this hallowed ground. It was here that the dreams of flight came to life. Like so many others before him, Frank came to this high desert sanctuary to realize his own dream. The path he had followed was one he laid out years before—a childhood fantasy come to fruition. But his passion for aviation was one that extended beyond the confines of the earth’s atmosphere. It went back to his earliest television memories of ghostly figures bounding about a gray barren landscape surrounded by the blackness of space. To him, no endeavor compared to the prospect of space flight. It filled him with an excitement that had motivated him for over twenty years. Every decision he had ever made was geared to the realization of his dream. Now he was finally on the verge of doing just that and he felt empty.
“There’s your plan and there’s God’s plan, and your plan just doesn’t matter.” His father’s words echoed in his mind. Sometimes he wondered if his blind ambition had forced him to miss a different path in his life. Up to now, everything he ever set out to do, he had achieved. Number one out of his pilot training class. F-16s in Europe. Distinguished Flying Cross in Desert Storm. Selected for Test Pilot School after completing a Masters Degree in Aeronautical Engineering. Assigned to the still secretive B-2 test program. His life was the ultimate résumé. In fact, he had just summarized every glorious detail in an astronaut application for NASA. But something inside him wondered if it was what he still wanted.
Along the way there had never really been any choices to make—he just followed his plan. Well, once, a long time ago, Frank did have one choice to make. But he had made it and continued along his preordained path. “ . . . and your plan just doesn’t matter.”
Frank slowed to make his turn toward the South Base compound. The eastern sky was now ablaze with a fusion of orange, pink and red. Silhouetted against this brilliant vista were the gna
rled branches of the Joshua trees. Like so many mythical Hydras, their twisted forms rose from the desert floor—solitary, serpentine figures that dared to withstand the Herculean forces emanating from Edwards. On cue, Frank’s attention was drawn to a low rumble that quickly became a roar. A B-1B, with its four afterburners spitting a trail of fire, thundered directly overhead. There goes Dale, thought Frank as he watched the menacing bomber begin a slow turnout to the north. Major Dale Walker was Frank’s best friend and a fellow test pilot. They had known each other since college at the University of North Carolina. Dale had been a bomber guy his entire career, but their paths had once again crossed as testers in the B-2. This afternoon, they’d be mission planning together. Somewhat guiltily, he realized Dale would be enjoying a sixteen-hour day today.
The mammoth South Base hangars loomed ahead of Frank. Compared to Main Base on the west side of Rogers, the facilities at South Base were brand new. Everything here had been built for B-2 testing back in the eighties when Reagan money was plentiful, though a few reminders of the past still remained. Two quonset-style hangars, once used for another top secret program at South Base, stood as lonely sentinels to the past glory of Edwards flight test. They had sheltered a stubby, orange bullet nicknamed “Glamorous Glennis” in the long ago quest to break the sound barrier. Frank wondered, what would Yeager and the boys think of today’s breed of test pilot?
Frank swiped the magnetic strip of his ID card through the reader, punched in his code and stepped through the revolving metal gate. Security procedures had been relaxed somewhat since the earliest days of the program. Before the B-2 was officially introduced to the public in 1988, access to the compound had been severely restricted. Only a privileged few were allowed to see the radical shape of the B-2; an aircraft designed to be nearly invisible to enemy radar was all about shaping. Of course, Soviet satellites flying over Edwards, or any light airplane for that matter, could have easily discerned the super secret shape of stealth. All they had to do was look down at the network of walkways in the center of the South Base compound. They formed the perfect outline of a B-2.
Frank followed these walkways into the squadron building and headed for the operations counter. The hub of all squadron activity, this room was dominated by a large flat panel display extending the entire length of one wall. Featured on the display were the aircraft and their assigned crews for the current week of flying. The big red “CNX” superimposed over today’s B-2 flight immediately caught Frank’s attention.
“Hey Bud, what happened to today’s mission?” Frank asked. “I was supposed to fly chase for those guys.”
Bud Corum, the crusty old ops specialist, looked up from his computer screen and frowned. “Our buddy Schmidt said it was cancelled.”
Byron Schmidt, the young B-2 Program Manager, wasn’t a favorite of Bud’s. Few were. Bud Corum had been around flight test at Edwards for what seemed like forever. In fact, he claimed to be a descendant of the original Corum family that settled the area back in the early 1900s. He had seen a lot of pilots and engineers come and go, and few had earned his favor. Frank was one who had.
“He said somethin’ about too much turbulence.”
“Yeah, flight controls testing and turbulence aren’t too good a combination. But I thought they had some alternate TF points?”
“I don’t think they trust anyone but you to fly ‘em. You’re the only guy in this whole damn place who understands how that system is supposed to work.”
The B-2’s low level terrain following system, or TF, had been in development for some time and needed one more test flight before the jet could be declared fully operational. Frank had spent the good part of the last three years going to the mat with the contractor to get the system to where a pilot could trust it to safely fly him a couple hundred feet above the ground, at night, and in any kind of weather.
Frank turned his attention to more important thoughts. “I see my F-16 chase line isn’t cancelled.”
“The jets all paid for,” Bud said, smiling. “Looks like you get a joy ride.”
Frank feigned indignation. “I assure you the taxpayers money will be well spent on proficiency training.”
Bud laughed and shook his head as Frank headed out the door, “Joyride.”
Chapter 2
Frank applied the slightest amount of pressure to the side stick controller, smoothly rolling the aircraft into a 60-degree bank turn. Some pilots never got used to the F-16’s nearly rigid control stick. They’d jerk the aircraft around, stair step the turns and abruptly pitch the nose up and down. Frank was smooth, deftly maneuvering the sleek fighter with a light touch that produced a harmonious blending of aileron, elevator and rudder. Though the F-16 was a “fly-by-wire” jet, Frank liked to think the flight control computers never filtered his inputs. It was as if there was a direct linkage from his mind to the control surfaces. The sensation of being one with the aircraft, having it crisply respond to his every desire, filled him with a sense of freedom and power that was intoxicating.
Sitting high inside the bubble canopy, Frank raised his visor and gazed out at the landscape far below. Looking to the west, he could see the cool, blue Pacific shimmering in the distance. Most of the low clouds had been swept away by the winds, revealing the beautiful diversity of Southern California. Jagged mountains separated the lush coastal valleys from the high desert around Edwards. To the north, the salty white depths of Death Valley gave way to the snow-white peaks of the High Sierras. Over this mélange of God’s creation, Frank soared, enjoying the government’s greatest gift to the pilot. Hundreds of miles of reserved airspace, stretching from the surface to infinity, dedicated to the business of flight test. In this airborne sanctuary test pilots were free to maneuver their crafts from the stall to supersonic without the usual hindrance of flight plans, assigned altitudes and meddlesome ground controllers. It was pure visual flying.
Frank enjoyed the solitude. Though he also flew the B-2, a so-called crew aircraft, Frank still preferred a single seat cockpit. Being responsible for every aspect of aircraft control and mission execution made him feel complete. Besides, the bomber guys sometimes flew test missions as long as twelve hours in duration. That took the fun out of flying. Frank preferred the quick, intense flying which fighters normally offered. He was born for this business of flying, and especially test flying, where the ability to coolly focus, analyze and react in the midst of physical distress, mental distraction and sometimes utter chaos was at a premium. Frank had always possessed this quality of unruffled awareness. It’s the same trait you’d find in a top NFL quarterback or racecar driver. In the flying game it was known as having good SA or situational awareness. Pilots who lost this vital attribute at the wrong time often ended up scarring the desert floor with their remains and those of their aircraft.
Back in pilot training, Frank had first realized he could do things in the air that his peers and sometimes even his instructors could not. Besides the hand-to-eye coordination and ability to think in three dimensions, he saw things that others did not. During formation flight and aerial combat maneuvering, he always knew where each aircraft was even if he lost them visually. At the post flight debrief, he could recount the entire sortie and what each aircraft had done at any given moment. It was a gift that Frank didn’t take for granted. He had lost too many friends with just as much ability because they had relaxed at the wrong time or inexplicably became distracted.
When he strapped into a cockpit, Frank left all distractions behind. His concentration was total. Even during a simple proficiency flight like now, his goal was perfection in all aspects of the sortie. He continuously challenged himself to achieve the unattainable. It had always given his life a purpose.
“Joshua Control, Zoom Two One’s entering the Sierra low level route.” Frank snapped the aircraft inverted and quickly pulled its nose thirty degrees below the horizon. Simultaneously, he reduced the throttle to idle, maintaining a steady 450 knots in the descent as he rolled back to wing
s level.
“Roger Zoom Two One. Monitor Three Fifteen Nine for advisories.”
Frank dialed in the new frequency and then leveled off 500 feet above the desert floor as the Sierras rushed up to greet him. His full attention was now outside the cockpit, occasionally cross checking the heads-up display for airspeed and altitude information. With his right hand, he deftly maneuvered the eager jet around the jagged peaks while his left hand guaranteed a mile’s journey every six seconds. Every aspect of his being was in tune with this elusive and ethereal dance over the varied landscape. A harmony of man and machine that demanded the utmost concentration, but delivered complete exhilaration.
Frank nestled the tiny fighter into a narrow slit directly over the rushing Kern River. He followed the weaving waterway, boiling white with the spring snowmelt, through the steep canyon walls. He was in complete control, challenging himself to follow every twist as he skimmed the surface with ominous boulders beckoning on all sides. Every control input was precise and planned as he scanned ahead for any danger. When the river branched to the west, Frank popped the nose up and made a hard right turn, lightly straining against the seven-G onslaught. The towering pine trees whipped by as the aircraft headed east, turning short of Mount Whitney which loomed to the north. Zooming skyward to crest a final peak, Frank smoothly rolled the jet inverted and pulled over the precipice. His canopy filled with a brown view of broken rock as the Sierra Mountains abruptly ended, dropping 10,000 feet into the Owens Dry Lake below. Long since drained by the greedy thirst of Los Angeles, Frank skimmed over the flat barren surface that once saw steam ship passengers traversing its mountain-fed waters.
The low level route continued into the Panamint Valley, separated from Death Valley by a string of mountains that once harbored Charles Manson and his followers. Heading south, Frank maneuvered the fighter directly over a huge peace sign that was carved into the rock at the base of the mountains. He lit the afterburner and pulled up nearly vertical, gaining 20,000 feet in a matter of seconds. Leveling off, he dialed in the squadron common frequency and began the short cruise back toward Edwards.
Spirit Flight Page 1
